


Whispers of vultures flock together

by Zayrastriel



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, but no happiness, maybe some ecstasy, there is no happiness in this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 07:40:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3241643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Conversations between Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham; flakes of lies and flickers of truth, bound together in vagaries and vagueries.  Pretty words for the dangerous game they play.  (Set between the start and end of season 2.  Can be seen as canon-compliant.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispers of vultures flock together

“You fed them to us.”

Will has said that, countless times; yet each repeat fails to lessen the blow, to lessen the shock.  “You fed them to _me_ ,” he rectifies, and there’s the betrayal.

To _me_.

Hannibal sighs, a heavy drafty breath that rings sincere and is completely false.  “Will,” Hannibal – _Dr. Lecter_ , Will corrects himself – murmurs, shaking his head with pity.  “Will, what are we going to do with you?”

There’s a flicker there, a flicker of an opening.  If Will were not still recovering from encephalitis, if he weren’t going mad from every day spent in a prison cell away from his dogs, away from his house, it might have been a flicker worth jumping upon.  But Will does not wish to know what Hannibal is going to do with him.

(He worries, still, that the answer might appeal to him a little too much.)

“You’re going to leave me here to rot,” Will says instead, though he no longer believes it (too many visits from his old psychiatrist, too much time invested by a man who invests little.)  “You set me up to take your fall, and now you’re going to sit back and watch me burn in my own mind.”

His voice cracks at the end, just a little.  Perhaps that is the reason that Hannibal’s brow creases, just slightly enough that Will is about three quarters certain that it’s an authentic, spontaneous response.  “Never, Will,” Hannibal tells him, the words gentle.  “You are my…friend.  I would never do that to you.  I promise.”

 _Friend_.

 _Victim-obsession-acquaintance-patient-my-mine-mine_.

Will turns away, deliberately.  Says no more.

He manages to last till Hannibal’s footsteps are merely an echo in the hallway before he falls to his knees and inhales too much air into his lungs.  He coughs on it; it’s stale and cold.

He misses the air, misses freedom, but dreads it in equal amounts.

What will Hannibal do, to keep that promise?

 


End file.
